


Of Tear-stained Letters and Bittersweet Farewells

by flimsycoats



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Cysithea, F/M, Heavy Angst, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Mild Spoilers, Self-Indulgent, dude i love them, i revised some stuff with lysithea and cyril's paired ending, purest and softest fe3h ship ever, their ship dynamic is powerful i'm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24583597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flimsycoats/pseuds/flimsycoats
Summary: ”Perhaps if the Gods were more kinder, more forgiving, more merciful—maybe then, we'd get our happy ending, my love.”orThe last time Cyril reads his letters for Lysithea.
Relationships: Cyril & Lysithea von Ordelia, Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 11
Kudos: 53





	Of Tear-stained Letters and Bittersweet Farewells

**Author's Note:**

> hello! a few notes!  
> this diverges completely from their paired ending. i don't even know why i'm writing this, to be honest.
> 
> but, yes, i love this ship so much. have fun reading this!

"Cyril,” Lysithea calls out, her voice weakening by the moment, losing its usual sprite. The said male rushes towards her bedside; slipping in beside her as he reaches out to hold her hand up to his tear-stained cheeks.

“I'm here, I'm here.” He whispers to her, closing his eyes as he simultaneously furrows his eyebrows out of worry. He squeezes her hand in his, placing a kiss atop the back of it afterwards.

“I can no longer.. fight it, my love.” She pauses in between words, her free hand slowly reaching to sweep away the hair blocking Cyril's forehead, only to fail seconds after—settling for the warmth of the silk bed sheets.

“Just.. give me a few more minutes, please. Claude is on his way—Linhardt, too.” The Almyran male attempts to remain calm and steady, for both his sake and hers. He opens his eyes. Gently, he slips his arms under Lysithea's body, slowly cradling her inside his arms.

He smiles at her. Oh, her eyes still had the most wonderful shade of pink. If one paid enough attention to them, they'd see the most powerful emotions—and the most vulnerable ones, too. But no one ever dared to look at the amazing Lysithea von Ordelia in the eye; her intelligence and studiousness had greatly intimidated almost everyone, especially during her Academy days. Everyone, but Cyril, that is. Somehow, Lysithea was always kinder to him. Softer, even. Her demeanor was also significantly more carefree whenever she was with him than when she was with other people—but Cyril never understood why.

She had a way with words; always, always bestowing them with flowers and sunshine, moonbeams and music—making them sound gentle to the ear, akin to the musings of a Songstress. Although, Cyril has never watched an opera before, so his comparisons are loosely based on how Dorothea explained it to him once.

Dorothea told him that Songstresses were people who had been gifted melodious voices by the Goddess herself long before they were even born. Cyril never really believed her, since he knew that she was making it all up somehow. But during the war, when he was finally given the chance to be reunited with the one he loves most, he knew that whatever Dorothea meant that day was true; except the voice was that of Lysithea.

She wasn't a songstress, but she possessed a voice more heavenly than everything else Cyril had heard throughout his life.

“Can you read me one of your letters?” Cyril breaks out of his trance as she utters these words, panicking for a quick moment before nodding at her. With his smile faltering little by little, he reaches out for the oak drawer beside him, reaching for the bundle of papers that were tied around securely with a black ribbon.

“..Which one would you want me to read?”

There must have been almost a hundred letters in that pile. The first letter he ever gave her was back when Lysithea was still a student. She taught him how to read and write; so he thought it would be nice if he showcased his new skills by writing her a letter filled with his gratitude. Of course, upon reading it, Lysithea was overcome with emotion, taking almost everything out of her to fight back the urge to tackle Cyril with a hug.

Then, after a while, he wrote her letters about how his day went, and how deeply he was thankful for her help thus far. At the end of every note, there had always been a small “Thank you for everything, Lysithea.” scribbled sloppily at the bottom.

And then, the war began. Their separation was abrupt—fast, unexpected, and unwanted. However, one day, while Lysithea was having tea inside her garden back at the Ordelia territory, a servant of theirs delivered a letter to her hastily. And as soon as she read the opening line, she knew it was Cyril who was writing. His penmanship had improved over time, but the subtle spillage of ink around the parchment paper had made it all too obvious.

Of course, she wrote back, telling him details of how she was doing and their situation there. Soon, they stopped talking about their objectives; unknowingly writing about their worries and how much they missed the comfort of the other. He'd tell her how Seteth succumbs deeper into anguish the longer Lady Rhea was gone—and she'd tell him how her and her peers from the academy had severed ties among each other when the professor went missing.

And, then, one night under the Harpstring moon, year 1183, Cyril confessed.

Lysithea was hesitant to tell him that she felt the same way, hindered by her pre-existing condition and the inevitable pain and sadness she would eventually bring upon him. But at that moment, it didn't matter; all that mattered to them was each other. For the time-being, that was enough for them—truly. As selfish as it was, Lysithea still chose Cyril in the end; wanting to remain happy for whatever time she had left.

“Anything. Anything to get me through the night.” The female's eyelids threaten to close; but it was evident that she was trying to keep it from doing so. Cyril runs his fingers through her hair comfortingly, nodding at her once again.

Cyril begins by loosening the ribbon that held the pile of letters in place. He shuffles through the cards, settling for one of the older ones. He clears his throat, his eyes scanning the card.

“Wyvern Moon, October 20th, 1183. Have you been faring well, my love? As for me, I think the war is beginning to take its toll on me.” He frowns lightly at this. “Also, rumor has it that lots of bandits are sneaking around the Alliance territory at night. Keep your eyes open for me, yeah?” Cyril folds the letter into two as soon as he finishes, taking hold of one of Lysithea's hands in the process.

“I was baking pastries when that arrived.” She remarks, a small smile crawling to her lips as she looks up at her beloved.

“Really? What kind of pastry?”

“Just a few scones. It's one of my..” The mage halts mid-sentence, erupting into a fit of coughs as Cyril hands her a cloth out of instinct, rubbing her back soothingly as soon as she rises to her seat. He flinches at this.

“Hey, hey. Don't force yourself to speak.” The male reminds her, tucking a strand of her white hair behind her ear as she relaxes ever so slowly. Her posture shrinks down once she is able to compose herself, cuddling closer against Cyril's chest as she holds his hand tighter than before, afraid of slipping away from his grasp without bidding her love a proper farewell.

“Will you be okay without me, Cyril?”

Lysithea blurts out suddenly, feeling the male freeze in place as she falls deeper in a pit of guilt. She clutches his shirt tighter. Soon, her eyebrows knit together out of dismay, her tears threatening to slip out of the corner of her optics.

But, still, it never did.

“Of course not. I thought we'd spend eternity traveling the oceans first?”

Cyril's response made it easier for Lysithea to blink away her tears instead, staring up at him, awe-struck as she smiles lovingly at the male.

He remembers.

A brief recollection occurs inside the white haired female's head. It was a year after the war—Cyril and Lysithea had been traveling together on land, searching for ways to reverse the effects of the experiments that Those Who Slither In The Dark had done on her. During one of the festivals in the newly-rebuilt Fódlan near the old Kingdom's capital, Cyril had taken Lysithea out to the shoreline; hastily asking for her hand in marriage, all the while a ring he procured from Hilda laid atop his palm.

Of course, Lysithea had accepted, jumping into his arms merrily—soon throwing Cyril out of balance, causing them to fall suddenly into the cold water of the ocean.

They lost the ring because of that. But Cyril never once blamed it on Lysithea.

The same night, after they spent hours trying to navigate under the saltwater, they collapsed into the comfort of each other's arms, lying idly on the sand as they tried to regain their usually steady composure. Lysithea had never laughed that hard before, and Cyril had never loved anyone more than he did Lysithea that night.

_“I'll find your ring someday!”_

_“The ocean is a vast and unexplored body of water. It would take eternity before you can find it!”_

_“Then after we visit all of the places here in Fódlan, how about we travel the oceans, next?”_

Remembering this had triggered numerous emotions inside Lysithea's already unstable system.

“I love you ever so deeply, Cyril, surely, you are aware of that already?” She croaks out carefully; trying to sit up once more. She feels Cyril's hand guide her shoulders, his eyes focused on her intently.

He knew she was saying these things because she was close to giving up. But since stubbornness was practically Cyril's middle name, he refused to face it, plastering a toothy grin instead as he inches closer towards his wife.

“I love you more than you do, Lysithea.” He reassures her, placing a chaste kiss on her forehead this time. “Claude and Linhardt will be here in a few. How about I read you another one of my letters?”

All Cyril needed for now was to distract her—to take her mind off of the stirring pain within her. He's done it before; and he liked to believe this was just another false alarm.

But, alas, his love for her had rendered him blind against what was truly happening.

“I'll miss you terribly, my love.” No longer able to fight it, a tear glides down Lysithea's cheeks, rendering Cyril speechless as he wraps his arms around her instinctively, burying his head inside the crook of her neck.

“Lysithea..”

“I'm sorry,” Lysithea starts. “I'm not strong enough to keep holding on.” Her voice came out as a mere whisper, almost inaudible, but their close proximity made it possible for Cyril to hear her, still.

And, so, Cyril begins to do what he does best: distracting Lysithea to prolong their supposed last moments together.

“Keep your eyes open for me, yeah?” He tells her as he breaks apart from their embrace, a smile capturing his lips as he holds his wife by her waist. “Come on. I'll read you another letter.”

Cyril skims through the letters once more; his tears gradually becoming apparent now. Some of them fell onto one of the letters. The male took that as a sign from the Goddess, instantly taking hold of that one particular letter with his trembling hand.

He sighs inwardly upon realizing what had just transpired in his head. Cyril wasn't really the religious type—he'd never been a firm believer, but during the monastery days, he tried giving it a shot because of Lady Rhea. But, still, praying to a being that Cyril wasn't even 100% sure existed proved to be a much harder task than he had anticipated. But, now—he was getting desperate. He knew that if the Goddess was real, then she wouldn't really find a reason to grant his prayers, seeing as he spent the majority of his life doubting her, but he had to try. He had to.

For her.

_Gods, Cyril would move mountains for Lysithea if she had just asked him to._

It was now Lysithea's turn to wipe away her lover's tears, her heartbeat quickening as she tried to take in the sight of Cyril breaking apart little by little. He was always so strong—so patient. He'd never been fond of crying.

Seeing him like this broke Lysithea's heart into a million, imperceptible pieces.

“I love you.” The female mutters out weakly, smiling in spite of the sorrow. “I love you. So, very much, my love.”

She was growing tired by the minute.

“Can I sleep for a while, Cyril?”

The said male takes a quick second to disregard her question, choosing to be selfish instead of letting her fall asleep. Perhaps it was because he knew; he knew that the moment her eyes began to flutter close, she'd never be able to open them again.

Selfish, he was. But be that as it may, he would never let Lysithea depart without giving her an appropriate farewell—without expressing his love and admiration for her properly.

“Pegasus Moon, February 28th, 1184.” He recites the date casually, his voice more clearer than before. “Happy Birthday, my love. I wish for more time with you.”

The letter was brief. But the joy that Lysithea felt—and still feels, mind you—upon reading those words had stayed with her throughout the entirety of her lifetime.

Ever since she met Cyril, happiness became a constant feeling in her life. Never once has he failed to make her smile from ear to ear. And Cyril never complained, of course; her smile brightened up his mood for most part. Even on the days in which his desire to give into despair exceeded the roof, he was able to trudge on, because at the end of it all—he'd come home to her smile. He'd come home to the solace of her embrace, he'd be able to bask in her warmth, for hours on end.

Oh, how he'd kill just to be able to see her smile up until the end of time.

“You've gotten really good at reading, huh?” Lysithea tells the male, carefully pulling Cyril closer to her body. She squeezes his hand, a little tighter, more needier—lest her final moments with him were coming to an end.

“You've yet to teach me how to read complex words. Don't sleep yet, Lysithea.” He desperately pleas, stumbling on excuses, in hope that it would give her reasons to keep holding on for now; just until Claude and Linhardt arrived. Anything—anything at all; just to get Lysithea through the night.

The moon had peeked meekly through their glass window, the light reflecting on the both of them. Cyril could faintly hear the sound of the singing crickets all around, echoing throughout their quaint bedroom in their house.

The small house that both of them had grown to love over time.

“Cyril,” Lysithea's voice mellows out the uninvited screaming inside Cyril's head, calming him down almost immediately upon hearing it. He sighs. Bitterly, he opens his mouth to speak.

“I'm here, I'm here.”

“I love you.”

He couldn't take it anymore.

The tears he had been holding back earlier now streamed down his cheeks freely, unable to quiet his sniffles as he tried to find the right words to say.

He loved her, too, more than anyone in the world. More than Lady Rhea. More than himself. And she knew that—she had to know that, right? He'd tell her time and time again that he loved her. He cared for her. He built a house with her—a home; a safe haven.

She had to know, right?

“I know that.” Was his brief response, struggling to keep his voice stable because of his low sobs. Cyril softly lets Lysithea go for a moment, wiping away his cheeks because he knew she'd be more disoriented if he cried.

“I'm sorry for leaving so soon..” Lysithea's voice was low. Almost as if she was speaking to herself. Alas, Cyril didn't hear her apology, too preoccupied with composing himself. 

She smiles at this.

It felt familiar, somehow—this scene had reminded Lysithea of their wedding day, when Claude told her how Cyril had been crying tears of joy the night before. It was said that Cyril cried so hard that his face began to resemble that of a tomato.

Even as they were speaking their vows, Cyril's cheeks were still red. And Lysithea wasn't sure if it was because of the cold, winter breeze—or if Cyril had truly been crying when she was walking down the aisle.

_“I love you, Lysithea.”_

_“Well, you wouldn't be marrying me if you didn't, now, would you?”_

_“Hey—I said I love you! You could at least say it back!”_

_“But you know I do already, my love.”_

With every passing second, it was almost as if the night was beginning to swallow the noise, silencing the unnecessary clamor in the background. And deeper, the night began to be, darker, heavier—it was unbecoming. _Suffocating._ Cyril felt all too vulnerable to create a decent response, sinking further into his loneliness.

And then, he freezes.

“Can I hold you, Lysithea?” Cyril questions softly, preparing himself inwardly. He stares at her, with nothing but pure and utter adoration, awaiting for her to affirm his query.

The night felt threatening—but he'd be able to surpass this, because he still had her, and even though the uncertainty of the morning scared Cyril terribly, for now, he was able to cradle her; love her, hold her, smile with her, be able to gaze up at the twinkling stars on their window with her—and for the time-being, that alone, was enough already.

“Please do.” The female relaxes her previously stiff shoulders, moving closer towards her husband as he wraps his arms around her. She smiles, albeit small, it still made Cyril happy.

And happy, he was indeed. Even after all these years.

He reminisces the first time he had ever talked to Lysithea back at the academy. She was insistent on helping him with his errands, assisting him time and time again without fail. He was against it, though, as he liked it better whenever he was the one who completed a certain task—but over time, he had grown quite accustomed to her company, to the extent that he began longing for her presence on the days she was nowhere to be found.

Cyril had never been in love before, so what he was feeling back then felt foreign. He tried to deny it, believing that Lysithea would never even bat an eye to the likes of him, and that what he was feeling was probably just admiration, but alas, he was unable to do so. Before the war, he made peace with the thought of just being her friend, her peer, her “student” of sorts. Had he known that Lysithea returned his feelings back then, he would have been able to prolong their time together.

But that fault was his own—for realizing it too late. Because as soon as he was enlightened with what he was actually feeling, Edelgard had hastily declared war against the church.

Too many things were happening at once—and, suddenly, Lysithea had slipped away from his grasp, like the fleeting daydream she was.

Cyril shakes his head. Mentally, he assures himself that even though the two of them were only able to spend time with each other properly after the war, they spent their days together to the fullest, as their day never became dull ever since the two had gotten to know the other even more.

“Do you want me to read you another letter, Lysithea?” Cyril's accent was thick, still. The aforementioned female chuckles quietly upon hearing him. She was going to miss this. She was going to miss him.

Raising a hand, she waves dismissively.

“No, no.”

“What would you like?” The male interjects, almost immediately, eager to finally give her the farewell she deserves.

Lysithea ponders on the question for a moment, briefly scanning her lover's face before reaching out to cup his cheeks, caressing his face gently with a hearty smile evident on her expression. Her free hand clutches her chest, she didn't know if it was because of the pain she was going through, or if it was because her heart was racing at the sight of the one she held dear. Eitherway, she was glad her heart was still beating, altogether.

“I wish for more time with you, Cyril.” She confesses. Her statement was a reference to one of Cyril's letters—the one that the male had read earlier upon Lysithea's request. The Almyran nods after, soon taking hold of Lysithea's hand, which was placed on his cheeks, still. Carefully bringing both of their hands down to their sides, he grins at her whole-heartedly.

“Hey,” Cyril calls out to her, squeezing her hand to reassure her. “I'll be okay on my own.” He remembers the question Lysithea had asked him earlier.

He knew that all he could do now was assure her that he was prepared—that even if Lysithea was really about to leave him tonight, he'd be okay, somehow; he'd be able to trudge on, albeit begrudgingly.

“I know that,” The white-haired female snickers lightly as soon as she replies. She soon connects her lips with the back of Cyril's hand, softly spoiling it with kisses as the male stares at her endearingly.

Cyril parts from their embrace, facing her properly this time. It was his turn to take both of her hands into his, following her actions as he soon places a kiss on top of them.

“I'll keep writing you letters.” He promises her, soon placing another kiss on her forearm, gradually climbing up until finally, he had reached her lips; the same lips that have always comforted him by merely tugging it upwards, the same lips that have always welcomed him home whenever he felt Lysithea kiss his forehead after a mission, the same lips that he'll cherish even after Lysithea is gone.

The two linger in the moment for a while, tears cascading down their flushed cheeks. It was Lysithea who breaks away this time, burying her head at the crook of Cyril's neck, weakly clinging onto him as she begins to speak once more.

“I can't keep my eyes open anymore.”

Cyril takes her into his arms again, his grip tightening by the second, careful as to avoid suffocating her. He strokes her hair, drawing circles on her back as he feels Lysithea's grasp on his shoulder loosen ever so slightly.

She really was like a fleeting daydream.

“You've fought hard enough.” Cyril whispers into her ear, taking in a deep breath soon after, inwardly preparing himself for what was about to come. Exhaling, he continues. “I love you, Lysithea. You can close your eyes now.”

And with her final breath, she responds.

_“I love you too.”_

Her chest heaves up, and down, and up again, until finally, it doesn't—and the only thing Cyril feels is the beating of his own heart, and the bustling feet outside of the once joy-filled house he shared with his wife, his best friend, the best teacher he's had, the one person he'll always, always love—Lysithea von Ordelia.

And even though what had ended tonight was not a letter, Cyril says it anyway.

“Thank you for everything, my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> “It is said that, for however long it lasted, they were happy.”


End file.
